Trauma
by helterskelter-walter
Summary: Memories came in shards, fragmented as if to keep out something essential. At least, it felt that something essential was missing, in Roger's perspective. But forgetting was an option Roger will have to decide on sooner or later. (OT3: Jagermon; but mostly RogerXSimon)
1. Chapter 1

**Another Lord of the Flies fanfiction! :D Roger x Simon is my favourite ship! :D Just a quick baby fic because I've been writing in Filipino, I think my English is not practised very well. A rated M fic because... hehe, gay smut :D When was the last time I banged one? Oh well, enjoy?**

* * *

**Trauma**

Roger's mind fleeted off to something deeper than mere mathematics sprawled on the chalkboard. The blackness was heavily dusted with white writings, but all he could see was redness. Red was all around him. Red walls, red tiles, red tables and red chairs.

Red people. They were painted red.

His pen was red, until he realised he was holding a stick. A long, sharp and pointy one. The texture felt familiar, as if his grip was simply ordinary, as if sticks were his favourite things in the world.

Screams banged the air. They were distant, but loud enough to understand the panic running in each high-pitched note. There was fear. And fear held the children's throats until their lungs burned with it.

His black locks danced in the air. With eyes shut, he tried to get the scene out of his head. "Push it back," he told himself. "Push it back, back, far away."

The crisp sound of running feet and fire melded into a cacophony. The shrill screams seemed to get louder. "Back!" Roger shouted, but the memory did not fade away.

_Thump!_

Blackness greeted him. He opened his eyes to see a half-naked boy, black hair down his shoulders and bright green eyes. The child smiled and ran off, disappearing in the deep green folds of the trees and creepers. He tried to run after the boy but claws held him back, heavy and draggy. They were long claws with pointed black nails, and it snatched him, only to throw him in a bottomless pit of more blackness.

"Mr. Elwin!"

The pale ceiling and a dangling florescent lamp welcomed him back to the real world. The cold tiles were beneath him, but these weren't the white tiles of the classroom- they were the checkered blue and white tiles of the corridors of the second flour. The diry walls of his classroom were gone and rows of florescent lights dangled above him. Now nothing was red.

Faces of people hovered. His vision started to become more lucid. They were ordinary-looking people, not a touch of red at all. Except for Jack Merridew's hair. But no one was painted red. No one was bathed in blood.

"Rog, you alright?" Jack reached out to help him sit up. But the raven retrieved his arm at the slight touch of physical contact. His friend shied away and gave a silent nod. "Can you stand up?"

The bodies that circled around Roger slowly backed away. He picked up the pen that sat beside him on the floor and stood up, wordlessly. On wobbly legs, he walked up to the classroom on the fourth floor.

The boy who fell of his chair and suddenly ran outside the room whilst bellowing something at the top of his lungs entered the room. As if nothing happened, he went back to his seat. The professor lowered her glasses and indifferently asked if he was fine. The boy lied and squirmed comfortably on the armchair.

Jack and a couple of his classmates entered and took their places. The old woman then proceeded in discussing Geometry. Shapes, angles, congruence, sides... terms jumbled all in his head. Roger couldn't understand something, but it was because he kept on hearing something besides the woman's voice. Someone was screaming his name in the distance.

* * *

Walter: Got plans to write short stories/ flash fiction to create a whole concept. I'll try to make it as short as possible, yet full with emotions? I'll also try to finish it ASAP because it's still Hell week for me and this is just me taking a nice break.


	2. Chapter 2

**Trauma**

**Chapter 2**

Too much and nothing at all, he had both at once. He had too much in his head, too much of the painful memory of the island. But he had nothing, gained nothing, nothing good for his heart. Everything fuddled him. He couldn't piece details in order, as if only shards of broken glass were left and there was no way to see the whole mirror ever again. And the sad devastating parts remained, like the fear. Oh the awful, gritty grime of fear that slowly became forever etched in his heart.

But there was a piece of this mirror that went missng. Could he have forgotten something? He couldn't articulate what it was since it had been such a long time ago. It sounded impossible to call it _his _past. It felt like he had lived in another life, in another body, with another kind of meaning to his name.

"Roger!"

The wind gently blew his bangs off his dark eyes when he turned to the direction of the voice. A redhead in a black hoodie was jogging to his direction. Roger, sitting stiff on a bench, waved at him in acknowledgement.

As his friend approached, his view suddenly changed. The trees around the school grounds looked thicker, almost like those in the forests. Car horns and faint conversations shifted into the sounds of birds, hooting and chirping, and the sound of insects, buzzing and singing. Then the sound of the ocean crashing against the shore flooded his senses.

Jack came closer, but his clothes started to vanish until a small piece of dirty cloth covered his private part. A belt hung at his waist and a knife dangled at the left side. His body gleamed with sweat and blood. A long stick protruded from his bloody hand. Clouds of sand puffed up at his feet as he trudged on the shore. Roger swore he heard him cussing, but when he stood right in front of him, "How do you do now?" was all Jack asked in puffs of broken pantings.

And everything was back to normal. The sun was high in a clear sky and they were still in the university. Cars revved their engines until they roared _vroom-vroom-vroom_! Students, both boys and girls, walked by, mindlessly awake in the virtual world of text messaging and the wifi atmosphere.

"Want to have tea at my house again?"

Roger merely shrugged his shoulders, feeling indifferent as usual. But a small smile stretch upon his dark face. He only needed to stand up from his position and soon, the two friends were silently walking to the Merridew's.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

College was different, way different than high school. Especially more different than elementary. And everything was very advanced. Technology was seeping its way, clutching every mind, getting almost all humans hooked on something virtual. There were many discoveries that were utterly relevant in a student's life nowadays. Laptops are very convenient.

"Like laptops," Jack, propped up on the other side of the sofa, muttered his reply in the middle of crunching his biscuit.

"Oh, yes, I couldn't agree with you more..." Roger had tried to sound enthusiastic, however the indifference in his voice was thick.

"I can detect sarcasm, you know." Jack replied and took a sip from his white cup. He laid it down on a saucer with a soft clink. Then an awkward silence followed through.

"It's a bit too early, don't you think?"

"Nonsense! Tea time is every second of your life!"

Although Roger knew that Jack was joking, he was actually quite serious about it. It was still two o' clock in the afternoon. The heat clung on their casual clothes inside the living room. The air conditioning unit was still being repaired by Mr. Merridew. Only a ceiling fan blew a soft air above them, occasionally flipping the strands of their thick hair to and fro.

More often that not, the young lads sat on the white sofa. Crossed legs, pinkies up, a gentle sip from the edge of the cup, a small chatter about life today, that was how it always went, at least once or twice a week. However, today was a Thursday, and Roger had visited the Merridew's ever since Monday. This seemed too much and he wondered if there was anything that Jack was hiding from him.

Something felt wrong.

Yet he couldn't ask for he always trusted him. Ever since they came back to England, he even made a pact to go to college with him and take up Creative Writing. Roger never asked why, but he didn't complain. It was worth trying and he quite enjoyed being guided under the hands of prestigious English writers of the modern world. Jack said he was enjoying it, too, and it helped him write his own songs. He still liked to sing. But that was their little secret.

"Isn't this tea a bit too…?" he paused, thinking of a better adjective. But Jack suddenly burst, "No!"

"No, what?" He raised a brow.

"Nothing." But his blue irises shifted uncomfortably, looking up, staring down, twitching to the left, glaring at his right. He began slurping his tea. His legs started to shake.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing! Just shut up!"

And in that brief moment, after putting his blue cup down the saucer on the table, he knew that _something _was definitely wrong.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"Jack, where's Roger?"

"Oh, huh? Did you say something, Simon?"

All the boys were huddled in the small room where they practised church songs. The smell of sweat and awful different mixes of food bombarded the air. Bodies were closed together, knees touched the backs, bottoms sat on feet, what the boys breathed was, more or less, what they just exhaled. They had to endure the moment until five in the afternoon. Tomorrow, their practises will be performed during the First Friday Mass. It was always the school's custom, since it was a Catholic institution for boys.

All eyes were on Simon, shocked and surprised. It wasn't so often that he spoke, let alone to the head boy himself. Everyone knew he was afraid of him. He was afraid of Roger, too. At least, it seemed to be the case since he had the tendency to faint whenever he was under the pressure of the two boys' gaze.

"N-nothing…" he whispered and bowed his head. A boy's hand patted his shoulder and Simon spun around to see Bill. He made a thumbs-up sign and Simon nodded, letting him know that he was okay.

"If you say so," Jack had a tone of mockery in his voice, but at this point, the boys were used to his authorative nature. They learnt to dismiss his attitude.

Once their head boy positioned his hands in the air, hands of a conductor, they all prepared to sing. Once his hands started to conduct, be it two-time, three-time, or four-time meter, they all cooperated well. Harmonious melodies flew out of the boys' mouths.

_~Trauma~_

"Simon!" he barked at him after practise was over and the room was almost empty.

"See you, Si," a fellow choirboy patted him at the back before exiting the room. Only the two were left. The shorter black haired boy slowly came towards him.

"Come here," he opened his arms to him, as if preparing for a hug. The little one hesitantly stepped closer.

"Yes, Jack?"

"No, stop acting cute." He snapped. His arms lowered down and he placed them on his hips. "What did you need Roger for?"

"I-I-I… didn't really _need_ him, haha!" He nervously chuckled and sratched the back of his head.

"Take off your pants."

"Excuse me?" Simon shot him a puzzled look. "Jack…"

"Take off your pants!" He repeated with a dangerous glow to his pale blue eyes. "Take those bloody pants off or else—"

Powerful hands gripped Simon by the throat. No words, no air, nothing came out of the gagging boy. The redhead tightened his hands around the thin neck and started shaking him back and forth. Simon's dark locks banged to and fro. He tried to push away the taller boy, but his hands weren't strong enough to rip off the hands that were ripping the air out of his lungs.

"You pussy! You damn, bloody, bastard! Roger's mine! He's bloody _mine_!"

Then door creaked open. Jack stopped and came to stare at his favourite raven haired friend.

"What's happening?"

Jack drew his hands and put them behind him. Simon dropped on the floor. Roger narrowed his eyes at his leader. He cradled the small body and left his other friend in the room without a sound.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Saturday usually included waking up in the afternoon. However, it was barely seven in the morning when Roger's mother found her son awake, already madly tapping in front of a laptop.

"Morning…" she called coolly.

"Morning," came the boy's hoarse reply. "It's an essay due on Monday," he muttered. Then the door to his room closed.

Yet that was only half the truth.

Two tabs were minimized in his desktop: MS Word and a chatbox. His essay in Word had remained empty for the last eight day, exactly the day their professor gave the essay. The other window contained Jack's e-mail and their personal conversation.

**rogerthat_chief**: slr. mum.

**chiefmerridew**: I see…

**rogerthat_chief**: hows the essay.

**chiefmerridew**: Well… 3rd page… not bad, eh?

**rogerthat_chief**: yup not bad. but my 6 pgs r ashamed of u.

**chiefmerridew**: No fair!

**rogerthat_chief**: haha.

**chiefmerridew**: Lend me some of your wisdom…

**rogerthat_chief**: asshole. its a personal essay. besides im kidding. got nothing actually.

**chiefmerridew**: THEN MY 3 PAGED ESSAY IS SO ASHAMED AT YOUR UNSTARTED PAPER! :D Although I can't believe this thing's got to be 10 pages long…

**rogerthat_chief**: water u writing abt?

**chiefmerridew**: My granny's house… because it's got lots of cats… love the ginger Persian one…

**rogerthat_chief**: course u do. look-alikes.

**chiefmerridew**: What's your topic?

But Roger's response came out only 48 minutes later, and Jack, disappointingly, had already gone offline.

Truth was, he didn't have a clue to his question. Their professor assigned them to write a personal essay with this topic:

"Any place that has ma-a-a-achooooo! 'Scuses, that has marked your hearts. In any way-way-way—achooooo! 'Scuses, a way that has marked you completely. Something you c-can't forget. And I'll be expecting your e-e-e—achooooo! 'Scuses, essays on Monday. Class dismissed."

He snorted, recalling his exuberantly sneezing prof. And, without a pause, he started typing a lengthy reply to his friend.

**rogerthat_chief**: jack. i dont know. but. there is this one place that really marked me. though its not clear in my head. some kind of forest. and wide floor of sand, like a bitch. sorry beach i mean. damn its not that clear. but I think they're boys. little boys that i dont even know. i think youre there too. and a blondie. and this cute boy dark haired. only said cute because hes tiny. tiny as a rabbit. jack i think ill write abt that. whatdya think. its been in my dreams lately. i think its a sign. im determined to produce a paper on it. can you help me tho. youre good in descriptions. how do I start describing a blurred dream.


	6. Chapter 6

**Some real Jagermon time! HAHA. (Jack x Roger x Simon)**

* * *

**Chapter 6**

That afternoon, Roger decided to stop by Jack's place of his own accord. He showed up the Merridew's front porch. A large yellow house stood right before him, the garden blossoming with flowery scents behind him, and a wooden white door with a silver knocker waited him to make a move. There was also a buzzer at the right side, but he preferred the knocker. This would definitely alert the Merridews since almost everybody, except for him, uses the buzzer.

Three rapt knocks on the wood sent the house to groan. Shuffling footsteps thudded closer and closer.

"Oh!" The nanny cried and stepped aside to let him in. "Jaaaaaaack!" she bellowed.

"Whaaaaaaat?" he cried out in a sing-song pattern, just like how the maid yelled out. Then a redheaded boy stomped down the staircase.

"Roger!" He cried and quickly dashed to him. Long arms flung aside and embraced the befuddled visitor. The awkward air hung around them, standing in the doorway, like a couple. It was Roger's short cough that made Jack move away.

The grin plastered on his face was wide and amused. He seemed to be so surprised of his guest, despite the fact that they always had a chance to see each other.

"Can you help me?" Roger muttered quietly.

Without a word, Jack pulled the sleeve of Roger's black hoodie and dragged him up the steps.

_~Trauma~_

Both boys were lying on Jack's rather large bed. Notebooks opened, pencils on their dominant hands, brains functioning, cooking ideas.

"You sure this is okay with you? I mean, you're pausing from your own homework just to help me…" Roger said for the umpteenth time. His heart was weighing with heavy conscience. But Jack merely rolled to the side of Roger and kissed him on the cheek, as if that would suffice for an answer.

Soon, the sound of their pencils floated all about and broke the silence that occasionally settled between them. The time passed with little chatter and little exchange of thoughts. Soon, Roger had finished a draft and was starting his introduction. Meanwhile, Jack was busily typing his essay on the laptop.

"You know, I've been seeing somebody," Roger uttered flatly in the middle of the symphony of the typing fingers.

"Oh, really? A girl?" Jack tried to sound nonchalant, but Roger knew he was slightly concerned.

"Jesus, no! Jack, girls are so… never mind. But, what I mean is, I've been seeing somebody in that island dream I was telling you."

"Oh, you must mean Ralph. The blonde one—"

"He had black hair."

"Was he fat?"

"No."

"With a stupid conch?"

"No…"

"Had glasses?"

"No!"

"Talks about bullshit?"

"Christ, no, Jack! NO!"

Roger wasn't aware that he was towering over Jack, who was seated in front of his desk. Their eyes held each other for a moment. The typing stopped. Jack slowly stood up.

"Don't think about him."

But Roger couldn't comprehend what he meant.

Yet he was more befuddled when Jack leaned in closer, and closer…

Their lips met, wet and warm. Jack breathed softly and pushed a bit closer to Roger, moving his lips against Roger's inanimate ones. He tried to lick his lower lip, tried to barge into his mouth, but Roger remained non-locomotive, and all the more grew puzzled and bewildered.

Jack parted and his lips suddenly sloped into a frown.

"Can't tell I like you, can you?" he whispered, slightly glowing as red as his hair.

"What?"

"I… like you... Roger…"

"Oh, please, you're saying that because you were busted by a hundred times by the other people you like."

"And you're doing it to me again," his voice cracked. Suddenly, his blue eyes became glassy and tears threatened to fall. "If I had a hundred people who turned me down… then you're my one hundred and first." The sobs suddenly deepened into a wailing noise. No sooner than that, Jack ran for his bed and jumped to it, lying face down. His anguished weeping was muffled by the blankets and pillows.

Roger, as if paralysed by the words of his own best friend, slowly took a seat somewhere at the foot of his bed. "Jack…" he softly called.

"Go away."

"No."

"Oh yeah, that's right, you still need me for our stupid homework. Well, I don't want to see your face in here ever again!"

"No."

Finally, the redhead rolled over and loathingly gazed at his raven-haired friend. "What do _you_ want?" he spoke through gritted teeth.

"I want _you_ to calm down. Now, what do you want _me_ to do?"

Jack sat up and quietly muttered, "Please forget about Simon."

"What?" he was taken aback with confusion. What did he just say?

"Let's have some tea."

"Alright."

But he was sure that Jack had said something else.


	7. Chapter 7

**This Chapter has leaped to a different timeline, just like Chapter 4 did. Being an experimental writer, or a lover for such complexities in style, I hope it wouldn't be too highfalutin to piece out the tidbits of the past to connect to the present, and perhaps even in the future course of the story.**

* * *

**Chapter 7**

_2 February 2008_

_Dear Stupid Dairy,_

_Roger is spending more time with Simon. I am frustrated. I want to kill that bloody git! But I don't want to make Roger that sad… Okay, thanks for nothing. Bye._

_Your damn writer,_

_Jack_

* * *

_8 February 2008_

_Dear Stupid Dairy,_

_I've never seen Roger look on anybody like that. I feel that he likes him. Eww! That fainting kid over me? And I've got natural beauty! Look at my hair! It's vibrant red—unlike his, a dark and shiny black… well, it's sort of good-looking, too, but not as amazing as my hair! Perhaps if I didn't have freckles, or I was short enough, he'll like me too? Whaddya think?_

_Your damn writer,_

_Jack_

* * *

_11 February 2008_

_Dear Stupid Dairy,_

_I hate love. I can see Cupid hanging from ceilings and hearts all over walls. Love is in the air, they say, and I HATE it. Roger doesn't seem to have time for me. Our long talks during choir practice have ceased. Only hi's and hello's come our way. What the fuck is this?! Shit, my eyes are getting blurry again…_

_Your damn writer,_

_Jack_

* * *

_14 February 2008_

_Dear Stupid Dairy,_

_I came to school with a chocolate box. I arrived home with the chocolate box. I wasn't able to give it to him! WHAT A FUCKING WASTE! But, you see, he already has one. Yes! Roger brought a box to school! But then gave it to Si… I'm fucking jealous! I'm so fucking jealous, my eyes are squirting water of jealousy! FUCK! This hurts a lot, goddamned it._

_Your damn writer,_

_Jack_

* * *

_20 February 2008_

_Dear Stupid Dairy,_

_I'm sick. Love-sick. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. So depressing to see them both at recess and lunch and even after dismissal. I don't get to talk much to him because he's always busy with that… fainting filth! But damnit, why can't I just move on, you know?_

_Your damn writer,_

_Jack_

* * *

_24 February 2008_

_Dear Stupid Dairy,_

_I wish this notebook is something like Tom Riddle's diary. So that you can answer back to me. And give me love advices. I think I should call you Tom, so that you can reply to me. Ah who am I kidding? I'm insane, aren't I, Tom? It'll never be… You're not Voldemort. I wish you were though. I think fictional characters like him, no matter how evil, can be of company to me than my very own best friend._

_Your damn writer,_

_Jack_

* * *

**I purposefully wrote "dairy" instead of "diary" and the reason is, well it's elaborated on the next chapter. Also, credit to HP and JK Rowling because I used a HP reference. Tom Riddle is Lord Voldemort, in case no body knows. (Though I'm seriously wondering who would not know about Harry Potter in the very least?)**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

The boys spiraled down the staircase that wound them by the front door. Jack led his guest to the kitchen, passing by their living room, which was an opening at the left of the narrow corridor.

Roger couldn't help but take another glance at the room. Though it gave him the creeps, he marveled at the design. The gothic substance pervaded throughout the entire room. The red-cushioned sofas and it's gleaming black edges, the wooden armchairs and the spindly tables, the mirrors that bore shiny black frames and a crimson carpet beneath the furniture, but most of all, the paintings that hung on the red walls.

There was barely space behind the frames, but he could tell that the wall was red, almost as red as the carpet. Most of them were portraits of the Merridews, as if the whole wall was an ancient genealogy of their family.

Roger particularly held the gaze of a woman. Hair as fiery and as wild as Jack's, but a bit longer, falling past her shoulders. Her eyes were odd, one was a sparkling blue, like Jack's but her left was a cold pebble against her pale face. The thin face bore no smile, but a thin line that looked silently angry beyond the canvas. She seemed to have a black cloak beneath a corset and a bulging chest. Long fingers were placed at her lap, sitting tall and proud, angrily staring out of her portrait.

"Ah, staring at granny?" Jack suddenly came up behind him, who was rooted at the entrance of the room.

"Oh, no, actually… your mother." He had time to read the tiny engraved marking at the bottom of her picture frame before realising it was the woman of the house.

"Ah," he peeked into the living room and gave a small smile. "Yeah, she's pretty, isn't she?"

"She looks like a witch."

Jack wasn't insulted at all. He was deeply amused, so amused a roar of laughter bubbled up and the room echoed his raucous squeals. Then, as if nothing happened, he tugged on Roger's black sleeve and dragged him to the kitchen.

Checkered tiles greeted their bare feet. Jack pushed Roger roughly into a chair. The raven almost toppled over but saved himself from falling. The redhead was now busy at the counter and Roger waited, watching the sun outside the window fade into a wonderful gradient of blue and orange.

The sun had not yet fallen down the horizon when the boys were sipping off from their mugs. Roger had the blue mug up his lips and carefully sipped the hot tea. He could see Jack, sitting across him, smiling from the rim of his mug.

"What's so funny?"

"Oh, nothing," but his smile grew wider, showing a set of straight white teeth. "Nothing you'd care about anyway."

"Oh, come on, aren't I your best friend?" Roger tried to smile convincingly, but he knew this wasn't really his thing. His lips awkwardly twitched to a one-sided grin instead, looking terribly forced and unnatural on his dark face.

"It's just that…" His eyes quickly shifted away from Roger's face. "I'd never thought I'd be able to kiss you… I've been thinking about it for so long and—"

A spurt of hot tea emitted from Roger's mouth and had splattered all over Jack's face. He cried as the heat licked his face. Quickly, he blindly staggered to the sink. The faucet creaked open and a harsh downpour of water burst out of the spigot. His hands greedily scooped the water to cool his face. He fumbled for the towel, which usually hung at his right side and wiped his face clean.

Face almost as red as his hair, he came back to the table with a rag on his hand. He mopped the tea spreading across the table.

"Sorry." Roger quickly muttered.

"It's alright. You cannot wipe a kiss just like that." He continued to mop the mess and take the rag out to the sink. He came back to his seat as if nothing could spoil his good mood.

"Didn't know you've been dreaming about it for so long… I was shocked. Sorry about spitting on you…"

"No worries! I, well, at least," then he heaved a sigh and said no more. Silence grew thicker and thicker now.

"Jack?"

"Yes?"

"Are you hiding something from me?"

"Whatofcoursenot! NowhywouldI? AsifI'mthatdepressedaboutsomecertainissuesnoIamnot!" He spoke in one breath and Roger couldn't comprehend what he was saying, but the reaction was a bit too obvious.

The afternoon drained into a marvelous sunset outside the window. Roger wondered what could his friend be hiding…

_~Trauma~_

Roger had long gone and Jack stomped up into his room after dinner time. He slammed the door shut and slunk down to the cold floorboards. He eyed his white notebook, his diary, as a matter of fact. But his diary laid down his desk, a few feet away from him.

"Dear Tom," he spoke aloud, as if the milky-white pages would be able to write down the words he spilled on air. "I finally kissed Roger. After seven years, Tom! Finally! I am so happy! Oh this is the best day ever. And he didn't even seem to remember about Simon! Ha! My plan is working perfectly... Soon, he shall be mine!

Your damn writer,

Jack."


	9. Chapter 9

**Wow, this is longer than I expected. I'm having fun with this fic, you can tell! I think my descriptions are getting too off-hand and overloaded and I hope that doesn't ruin anything. Oh, well, this fic is not really that far from finish. I can't estimate how many more chapters to go but... hold on for more! Don't know if anyone still interested in this little fic, but it's turning more than a little fic now. I think it's because I have a lot of time nowadays. HAHA. Okay, enough babbling. Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter 9**

There wasn't much time to pause for a break, to eat, to drink, or even to piss. He had to type as fast as he could. He wanted it done before Sunday.

Roger glanced at the time displayed at the lower corner of his laptop's screen. 1:12 AM. It was the first few hours of Sunday already. In a few hours, it would be Monday, the dreaded deadline.

"_It startled me, how the colours suddenly grew more vibrant, how the shapes materialized out of the blue, how the noise of little boys and the crashing shore ignited my silent dream. _

_That was the sad part to realise. It was only a dream._

_Though it felt real enough to see the sun up above, and smell the fresh air that blew a steamy breeze. The heat wrapped around me, touched my bare chest and legs. The sand buried my bare soles. I was out on an island with nothing but my black shorts on._

_A beautiful weather on this beautiful island, that was how my dreams begun. I don't recall when these recurring dreams started, but it often popped up. Even daydreams couldn't keep me out of this scene."_

His essay started and soon, his fingers were on a roll. They rampaged through the keyboard. His dark eyes focused on the final draft he had written on a notebook. He placed this notebook on his lap whilst his fingers tapped and knocked the words out of the paper into the virtual pages of MS Word.

Words sprawled, letter by letter, appearing a length of three pages, then five, then seven… Roger barely stopped to check on his spelling or grammar. He decided he would do that later. It was easier to simply type it all, then fix it after. His fingers kept on pressing the Ctrl button and the S key to constantly save everything every other minute.

Roger started to parade what the island looked like in his memory. He detailed a lot of minor things, including the squawking of the passing seagulls, to the shiver of plants whenever they (the hunters) ran around the forest on a pig chase.

Then he decided to include how he felt about being there, when a thought dawned upon him.

"_I never asked to be there" _he started his realization at the beginning of the eighth page. "…_nor did I want to be there. Stranded was the word, I knew it, but I couldn't explain it since the dream itself is quite vague._

_Sure enough, the island felt like a dream, but sometimes it felt better than that. But… Could it be real? Was it even possible?_

_I'd like to believe that this island was nothing but a dream. Yet where would the fun be in that? All I ever did in that dream were things that I would do without anybody's guide. Hell, I would kill if no one told me it was a sin._

_This island then becomes more than a figment of my imagination or mere blurred thoughts. I could believe this place was real, I could believe that I was a great hunter, agile and brutal, always hungry for power—or hunting for food. I'd be the rebel I always hid from this normal world. _

_Freedom. Complete freedom. To literally do whatever I felt like doing and acted upon the very urge, that was how this island marked me. I was alive in these dreams, as if I have truly been alive in that place. _

_But when? _

_Remembering was a task I persuaded my mind. I think I might have raped it enough, but I only produced snippets of images of more boys. A redhead, a blonde one, a dark-haired one, and a fat kid, all the rest were little ones with blurred faces and high-pitched voices that screamed about a beastyhi86rub fi"_

Tired eyes dropped drastically. Without warning, Roger's head toppled down the keyboard, knocked out by fatigue. He had fallen asleep by five in the morning. The empty mug of coffee was drained clean. His mouth hung open, but saliva didn't profusely drip off the wide cavern. A snore escaped, loud, almost like a roar.

A roar, loud and as sudden as the thunders outside the gloomy early morn, was ringing in his ears. He woke up with a start, and the echo of the roar suddenly vanished.

Roger doubted he was still awake. Darkness was so prevalent, it was as if his eyes were still shut. He tried to stand up in the dark, feeling his way. Arms outstretched, anticipating any obstruction in the way. Balancing was a bit hard, but soon his knees straightened, his feet now stood firm upon a rocky ground.

Then, something knocked him down, and he laid flat on the rough stones.

"What was that?" Roger spoke aloud, in unison with someone. Or something else.

"Who's there?" they both cried together. Then running noises faded in the distance.

"Hey!" This was now Roger's lone voice, echoing in the dark. "Please, don't leave me!"

"Roger?"

"Huh?"

Something brushed up and hit him.

"Ow!" Roger and the voice abruptly muttered together.

"Oh, sorry, Roger!" Then something thin entangled him. No, wait, it was… soft, and warm, and they were arms… something was hugging him. Roger, befuddled, did not move. He only felt the warm body pressed against his bare chest. Something hairy laid upon his left shoulder. The thing that was wrapped around him breathed calmly.

Then a growl erupted. Somewhere yonder in the dark, the growl resounded in the hollow darkness. The other body ceased the embrace and cried out, "Quick! We've got to hide!"

Without further ado, Roger was pulled to his feet. Dragged along by someone (or something) that forced him to run. That being clung to his wrist, digging his nails deeper and deeper. The voice was tiny and desperate as they ran the rocky surface in the dark.

Blinding light showered them as they reached the mouth of a cave, and for the first time, he gapped at the being that guided him out. He stuttered, sputtered incoherently, and ended up stammering gibberish lines at the young boy with bright green eyes.

"What's wrong, Roger?"

But he spoke incoherently again and the other boy leaned closer. "Can you repeat please?"

"Who… you… I…"

A giggle bubbled up from the shorter boy and the both of them quietly rumbled with short laughter.

"You're so funny, Roger," he smiled. "Come quick! Or the beast'll get us!"

They entered the forest, sprinting around the soft marshy grounds, the branches that stretched out to their paths, the winding roots that sprawled on the ground. Exhilaration pumped up his veins and Roger never felt so alive as running wild and careless in the open air.

And this boy, he knew that he was no stranger. He simply couldn't put the words to what he was called, but the boy's name was at the tip of his tongue. Often, this boy appeared, especially on this island dream. But on a heavier account, this boy, mysteriously, and always appear in his dreams. Who was he anyway?

The green canopy vanished above their heads and a cloudless blue sky appeared. The dirt suddenly softened into hot sand and right before his eyes, the vast ocean.

"Oh, that's right, you better go to your tribe now…" The other boy suddenly spoke. He tiptoed closer to Roger and gave him a peck on his cheek. He turned tail and ran across the sand. At the end of the shore, there seemed to be small figures of tiny boys and tiny huts. He squinted against the blazing heat, tried to follow the running raven with his eyes—

A hard thick object smashed right at the back of his head. Sniggered filtered in and when he turned around, his jaw dropped.

"Jack?" he looked incredulous at the redhead, only donned in a small piece of clothing that covered his privates upfront. Paint was smeared all over his dirty freckled face. Leaves poked out from his red top and on his left hand, a long stick sharpened at both ends.

"Oi, pick that up. Where are your reflexes, eh?" Jack sneered, then grunt at his direction.

"Jack? What happened to you? Oh fuck, if your mum could see you—what's so funny?"

There were taller boys who now circled upon Roger and they let out low laughs.

"Thing is Rog," the boy spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, his blue eyes glinting with a dangers glow. "There's no mum, there's no dad, no sister, no bro—just us."

"What do you mean?" He felt his heart skip a beat.

"Just us." He made a big sweeping motion as if his long tanned arms could cover all of the island. "We're on our own."

"No!"

"Yes! And I'm chief!"

"No!"

"YES!" He towered over Roger, whose knees bended a bit. "And, have you seen that Ralph?"

"What's a ralph?"

A chorus of laughter emanated from the boys around him.

"What's a Ralph, he says! Oh, hahahaha, that's a good one!" Jack cried out. "But seriously, he's the one who lives on the other side of the tribe." He picked up Roger's confused face and twisted it to the direction where the Mystery Dream Boy had run off to. "He lives there, and we're attacking them now."

"Attack?"

"Yes!"

"NOOOOOO!"

The sound of his voice echoed then disappeared once he woke up and found himself back in his room.

* * *

**Sorry for the out-of-character Roger in here... Well, he is supposed to be confused. After all, this is the first time he's going to have a clear dream. Oh damnit, spoiler.**


	10. Chapter 10

**WARNING: Contains violence and sexual themes. Not much profanity in here though. Please read with caution and careful understanding.**

* * *

**Chapter 10**

"Oh."

A black screen greeted him, and when he moved the mouse a bit, his laptop sprung to life, still hanging at the part where he dozed off. No damage done, except for the unnecessary characters after the word 'beast.'

"Oh, shit!" He bellowed and started to type as fast, like a maniac. It was now six in the morning, and his eighth page still needed to be filled up, along with the ninth and the final page.

But the tangle of words he typed nonstop made no sense. Soon enough, he had fallen again and dropped into the void of his dreams, where he found himself in the forest.

The Mystery Boy was pinned to the ground, and worse, in between _his_ legs. Roger was kneeling atop the green-eyed boy and was surrounded, not only by the trees and plants, but also by the tall, evil-smirking boys he met up with Jack.

"Excellent," came Jack's voice and he stepped out of the circle. "Now, you decide what kind of punishment you want. What will it be today?"

"No! Please! Don't!" The boy squeaked and Roger, not knowing what was happening, didn't bulge at all.

"Punch him in the face!" Someone suggested.

"No, I've heard him squeal. Not as interesting at the twins. Maybe you should tease him? Like, give him a lick on the ear."

"Excuse me?" Roger's eyes narrowed into slits at the mere thought. What was wrong with these boys? So much like savages...

"You could always take his clothes off?"

"Or bite him!"

"Perhaps tickle him to death!"

"Beat him up!"

"Kick his ass!"

"Bury him alive!"

"Do him in, like the pig!"

All of their voices melded into a cacophony. The noise buzzed, making his head feel heavy and dizzy.

"ENOUGH!" Jack yelled. "Since you've paralysed Roger, I'll do the deed. Step aside, pussies." He was tugging himself out of the throng of boys. Then flung Roger away from the little boy and pinned him down. "Hello, Simon," the redhead sneered. "I'll be punishing you for stealing _our_ fire aga—"

The boy beneath him spat Jack on the face. "That's _our _fire!" he seethed boldly.

Jack disgustingly wiped off the dribble that Simon chucked up at him. With a swift movement, he pulled up the little boy's legs into the air. The back of Simon's knees rested atop his broad tan shoulders. Jack hastily dragged the shorts off little Simon. His private, hairless, was exposed to the boys and Roger couldn't help but look away shortly.

Jeers erupted from the other boys and they clapped mockingly. Roger took a side-long glance, then his jaw dropped at the sight of Jack twisting his only piece of cloth to his bottom. The erect figure of his own private was appalling to see. And it was even more horrendous to see Jack force his own manhood between the two cheeks of Simon's buttocks.

"Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!" The boy's yelps were drowned in a dissonance of entertained laughter and mockery. It was only Roger who clearly heard Simon's voice, ringing in his head, puncturing him to the real world where his essay was still unfinished. It was already seven in the morning.

His heart thumped as if he had been chased. There mere thought of the little boy's petrified screams haunted him. He looked around. No trees, not a single branch, he was now in his room.

"Damn it, that's traumatizing..." he muttered, slowly picking himself up and heading towards the kitchen for breakfast.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

"You look…" Then Roger shot an icy look at his mother. "…different." She finished her sentence cautiously. All her life, she had to adjusted, just to understand his strangeness.

"I… don't know what to feel." He truthfully said, but his response was greeted with a snort.

"Of course you don't. You always shun your feelings." His mother retorted in a matter-of-fact voice that Roger, did not just hate, but purely loathed. "But, just to help you out, son…" She laid a platter of stacked pancake right in front of him, then laid the bottle of maple syrup and the tall can of whipped cream right next to his plate. "I'd find out the root of what's troubling me."

He suddenly felt so small in his chair. Being treated like this by his mum greatly annoyed him because she always knew what to say. He wished he could have a great mind like hers, a mind that worked independent of other's help and advises.

"That's great," he muttered, grabbing the maple syrup, pouring a generous amount on the top.

"You ungrateful little shit, you," his mother said with a small smile. "Just like your father." Her grin grew wider, and Roger, though she deliberately insulted his father, found himself returning a smile. "He didn't like to be bossed around, to be told what to do, or what not to do. Liked to work alone, your dad. That's obvious, right? He ain't here right now. He liked doing things alone, like you do, son. And he despises me whenever what I say to him is right. I bet you feel annoyed I'm right again. Right?"

Roger playfully stuck out his tongue at her, and allowed his mother to flip the bad finger at him. Then he ate in silence as his mother washed the dishes. _Damn it, that woman's right_, he deeply though, chewing and swallowing the hot treat down his throat. _Damn it, that amazing woman is my mother._

"You're as lonely as your father," she suddenly piped in, after turning down the spigot and the water's rushing noise halted. "But sooner or later, you'll realise, you want a friend. Or that you need someone." She looked straight into Roger's soul, staring deep into his dark eyes. Roger had no choice but to stare back at the same pool of depth, but he couldn't puncture down his mother's soul as she did to him. "It's okay to be alone sometimes. But when you get too lonely, you'll want someone to trust all your feelings to." She turned away and left the kitchen.

"Mum!" he found his voice and muffled the word though his mouth was still stuffed. The young lady reappeared at the doorway, parting the beaded curtain away.

"Yes?"

He gulped down his food before professing, "Mum, you are right. I am alone. I am lonely."

She took this as a cue to sit down at the chair across her son.

"I've been having a weird dream, Mum," he progressed on. "There's this island. Oh, it's beautiful. Green trees, a vast clear ocean, hot sand, and the feeling was… liberating. No adults around, I was on my own! But there were others, too. I saw Jack in there, Mum! And, and, there's this boy… called Simon… and many more boys I don't know who, but they were mean, and I just don't understand… and that's the problem."

"Does this keep on happening?" she inquired quietly after he spoke in one rushed explanation.

"Yes, and it's nightmarish, Mum. The liberation felt good, honestly, but… someone, or something, bah, it feels evil as well. Jack… did awful things. He stole something! And I don't understand what's happening but," he shuddered, "…horrible things happened."

"You don't know what this means?" her voice raised with a curious eyebrow, but Roger shook his head.

"Honey, you're starting to remember!" Her voice wasn't alarmed, but a bit hopeful, as if anticipating a new discovery. "Rog, you're finally remember what happened when you were gone!"

"Wha—"

"Oh, god, you can finally tell me what's wrong! You've never been so moody after that incident!"

"What incident, mother?"

"The island incident!"

There was a long pause. A staring contest began. His mother's face was twisted with worry; she looked imploring. Bur Roger couldn't understand, and it was evident with the face of frozen confusion upon his dark face.

A scary thought dawned upon him before he quietly asked, "That… was… real?"

His mother, looking a bit crestfallen, nodded ominously. She tore away her gaze from his son and put her hands up to her face. Her bony shoulders slowly heaved up and down, as if she was wheezing silently. A sniffle escaped her fingers. Roger couldn't understand why she was crying.

"Oh, it's been years…" she moaned softly against her palms. "Just before the war. And I had to take caution. Your father even agreed with me. So we send you off to… a better place, at least that's what they said. But, god, of all the airplanes in the world that could've crashed on some uncharted island, it had to be the one where you were boarded on. Many months of hell came my way, and nothing your father said could cheer me up. I wanted you safe. I'm glad they still found you after all those years. You were just a boy, just a boy, not a soldier, not a knight, just a boy..."

Silence swept the kitchen and although the sun and the sky promised a beautiful Sunday, this morning was already heavy as if yesterday's thunderstorms were still lingering around the walls.

"Some kids died. I thought it must've traumatized you… You never talked about it. Ever. I gave up opening the topic to you. I think it's hard to keep such memories. Your best friend die—"

"Jack's not dead." His voice sliced through her sentence before she finished it.

"Oh, I wasn't talking about Jack!" she snapped. "It's Simon!"

"What?!"

"Simon!" Then she slowly pulled away her hands and took the edge of her blouse and wiped up the tears that streaked down her cheeks. "Don't tell me you don't remember Simon! You've been in Elementary and High School together! Jack should know him, too. You lot were used to be a part of the school choir. You've invited him in this house before. That short boy with green eyes who laughed a lot and-"

"Jack knew?"

She nodded.

As if that was the sign of approval, something rose in his heart. A strong feeling of anger, maybe rage, rose up to his head and soon, he exploded with the words, "HE KNEW? HE FUCKING KNEW? SIMON'S DEAD AND HE KNEW THAT?"

She gravely nodded, then watch her son storm out of the house, leaving his plate only half a pancake eaten and a deafening slam of his bedroom door.

* * *

**Walter: Sorry for the long chapter. Well, well, well... this is getting longer than I expected. But anyways, my fingers are just typing out whatever they feel like, sometimes I wonder if it's even my brain whose thinking these kinds of stories. Oh well... tragedies are to be expected in the end, as always.**


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